The Price of Love and Other Stories (33 page)

Even though they were outside, Banks asked for permission to smoke and Gristhorpe granted it. “I see you’ve had an accident,” Banks said, gesturing to the wall. “Storm?”

Gristhorpe followed Banks’s gaze and frowned. “No,” he said. “Practice. It’s a hobby of mine. I build a wall, then I take it down again and build it differently.”

“So it’s not a wall around anything, really?”

“That’s right.”

“Or to keep anything out?”

“No.”

“And it’s not really going anywhere in particular?”

Gristhorpe beamed at him. “You’ve got it.”

Banks was beginning to wonder what sort of weird yokel he’d got here. A man with baby blue eyes who builds walls that don’t go anywhere and don’t wall anything in. Were they all like that north of the Trent? Or the Wharfe? Maybe it was something in the water.

Mrs. Hawkins came out with the tea on a tray, along with a plate of scones. Banks was still full from lunch, but he had learned to eat when food is offered, so he took one. It was still warm. He made appreciative noises as Gristhorpe poured the tea. That done, the superintendent said, “So what is it that makes you want to come and work up here?”

“Well,” said Banks, searching for the answer he had prepared in his mind. “It seems to me that in today’s force, if a man is at all ambitious, he has to move around. You know that promotion within the same station, even region, is discouraged. This is a great opportunity for me. A step up.”

Gristhorpe hadn’t been looking at Banks while he was talking. Banks fancied he’d been staring at his drystone wall and wondering where to put the next stone. The silence stretched, then Gristhorpe said, “So you’d say you’re an ambitious man, would you? I must admit, you do have that lean and hungry look, but I put it down to deprivation rather than overweening ambition. Missing too many meals, I’d say. Eating on the run.”

Banks wasn’t quite sure what he meant, but he realized the interview, or conversation, was taking off in a direction he hadn’t reckoned on. “Well, you know what it’s like,” he said. “The Job. Sometimes you just forget to eat.”

“So it
is
hunger, rather than ambition? Have another scone.”

“Sorry, sir? No, thanks, I’m full.”

“Hmm,” said Gristhorpe. “I don’t see advancement within the Met as a problem. It’s big enough, surely, to offer all the variety and specialization you need on the job these days?”

“Well, yes, I suppose so, it’s just … ”

“Yes?” Gristhorpe stared at him with those guileless blue eyes.

Banks felt himself wading deeper into the quicksand. “I fancy a change, that’s all, sir. I heard about DCI Varley retiring and … well … I thought I’d give it a go. A change is as good as a rest.”

“So you need a rest? A holiday?”

“No, sir. I was speaking metaphorically.”

“Ah, I see. That’s admirable,” said Gristhorpe. “Of course, you know it’s not up to me, don’t you?”

“Well, yes, sir, but I rather thought … ”

“Yes?”

“Well, as it’s be you I’d be working for directly … ”

“That with us being such a small and insignificant outpost, I could put a word in, and the chief constable would just rubber stamp it?”

“No. No, sir. I didn’t meant that at all.”

“Then what did you mean? Why are you here?”

Banks put his cup and saucer down. “I told you, sir. I fancy a move and a promotion. I thought I was here for an informal job interview,” he said, starting to stand up, “but I –”

“Oh, do sit down,” said Gristhorpe, waving his hand impatiently.

Banks saw the ghost of a smile on his face and sat down. “Sir.”

Gristhorpe leaned back in his chair, which seemed dangerously close to falling over, linked his hands behind his head and contemplated Banks, brows furrowed. “Let me tell you what I think, Alan, if I may call you that?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t get the impression, either from reading your personnel files or from meeting you in person, that you are an especially ambitious person. You’re an old-style copper, and you probably always will be. That’s why a move to a rural backwater like this for the sake of moving up one grade, from DI to DCI, doesn’t make a lot of sense to me. I think what we’ve really got here is a case of burnout. Or near burnout. Look at yourself, man. You’re chain-smoking, your fingernails are bitten to the quicks, you’ve got bags under your eyes big enough to pack for a six-week holiday, and I’d bet a pound to a penny you’ve got a drink problem too. I think you’re after a spot of gardening leave, but you don’t want it to read that way on your service record. Am I close?”

“Not at … ” Banks started to answer but tailed off, noticing Gristhorpe’s expression. There was no point trying to bullshit this man, he realized. He might as well leave right now. But something about the place, the view, the birdsong, the useless drystone wall and Gristhorpe himself kept him sitting where he was. There were other reasons he wanted this change. Yes, a lot of what Gristhorpe
had said was true, but he hadn’t known until he had driven up north just how much he wanted to get away from what his life had become in London.

“Well? Cat got your tongue?”

Banks lit another cigarette, self-conscious that he was doing so. “You’re right in a way. It would be hard to deny that I’ve come to a sort of turning point and need to make some serious choices. But this is one of them. I can do the job down there. I could stay and carry on just as I am now. Maybe in six months or a year I’d crack up, run off and join a private security firm, whatever, or maybe not. Maybe it would just pass. But I don’t think I’d realized until a few days ago, and especially not until today, just how much I want the change.”

“Why? We must lead pretty boring lives up here compared to those action-packed days you blokes have in London.”

“I don’t know about that, sir,” said Banks.

“And if it’s gardening leave you want, or a desk job –”

“No,” Banks protested. “I want to do my job. I’m a detective. A good detective. That’s what I want to do. I want to work cases. I don’t want to just sit behind a desk.”

“You can do that down in London, just as you are doing now.”

“I know. But it … ”

“We don’t get a lot of murders up here, but we do get the occasional missing sheep or post office robbery. A lot of your work would probably be routine.”

“It already is,” said Banks. “But as long as I can get out on the streets … ”

“Country lanes. No mean streets here.” Gristhorpe smiled. “Well, maybe one or two in Eastvale.”

“Right. As long as I could get out, get among people, try to sort out the villains from the rest, follow leads … ”

“You’d be at a bit of a disadvantage, being a Londoner.”

“I’m from Peterborough.”

“Same difference up here.”

“People are people everywhere.”

“Aye, they are that, all right. But they’re a rum lot around these parts.”

“I can do the job. I
want
to do the job.”

Gristhorpe held his gaze and Banks sensed his own resolve strengthening for the first time since he had considered moving, becoming real, solidifying into a need to come here, to prove himself to this insufferable, all-seeing, inscrutable detective superintendent sitting placidly in the chair opposite him as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

“Aye,” said Gristhorpe. “Mebbe you do. Got time for a walk?”

“Sir, you’d better come quick. There’s been another one. There’s a car waiting outside.”

Banks had only been back from Yorkshire for three days when Albright came over to his hutch at two o’clock on Wednesday afternoon. It had just stopped raining and the traffic was still a nightmare. Banks sweated even with the window open as he sat in the back and smoked, getting the scant details from Albright as the car crawled up Regent Street: a woman’s body found in a flat off Charlotte Street by a cleaner. Scene secured.

At least his hangover wasn’t too bad, he thought, as they went outside and got into the waiting car. After another evening in the clubs following leads in the Pamela Morrison case that twisted into thin air and disappeared like smoke, he had rung Linda and, getting no reply, had gone to Ronnie Scott’s alone, sat at the bar and sipped a double Scotch while listening to the last set by an up-and-coming American jazz singer he’d never heard of. He liked the intimacy and warmth of Ronnie Scott’s, the small stage surrounded on three sides by tables, the soft lighting, plumes of smoke, a long bar stretching across the back. The singer was good, a slightly husky voice with expressive phrasing and a good range. She also sang some of his
favourites: “Fine and Mellow,” “Summertime,” “I’ll Look Around,” and a version of “The Other Woman” that sent shivers up his spine.

At Oxford Circus, the driver went straight on, towards Broad -casting House, but turned right on Mortimer Street. They finally arrived at the flat – one of six in a narrow three-storey building – signed in with the officer guarding the door and went inside, careful to follow the route mapped out by the SOCOs, who, along with DCI Roland Verity, had got there just before them.

The actual crime scene was in the bedroom, but police tape had also been fixed across the door to the flat and across the front and back doors of the building itself, sealing off the whole place. For the moment, nobody but the SOCOs and the photographer, Harry Beckett, were allowed in the bedroom. A young police surgeon also stood in the living room looking pale, as if this were his first dead body. He told them that he had certified death, most likely caused by asphyxiation, and taken the body temperature, which indicated that she had died between midnight and three in the morning. The rest would be up to Dr. O’Grady, who was otherwise occupied in performing a post-mortem, but would take over when the body reached the mortuary. It was the property of the coroner now, and when the various experts had finished, he would give the order to take it away.

Banks sent Albright to talk to the other tenants in the building, if any of them were home, and find out what he could about the victim’s comings and goings, and especially if anyone had noticed anything between midnight and three in the morning. Then he turned to Verity.

“Roly,” he said. “What brings you out here?”

“I was on a call across the street,” Verity said, “and I saw all the activity. Copper’s curiosity.”

The SOCOs were as territorial as usual about the crime scene and all Banks and Verity were allowed to do was stand at the bedroom door behind the tape and watch them at work. Banks cursed under his breath. Though he wasn’t supposed to do it, he always enjoyed a
quick look at the scene, alone if possible, or at least without the officious presence of the technical support experts. Still, you couldn’t fault them on their work. There wasn’t much they missed.

The flat itself was certainly bigger and better appointed than the one where Pamela Morrison had been found, and Banks guessed that the victim probably lived here. It was nicely furnished with a leather-upholstered three-piece suite, drinks cabinet, glass-topped coffee table and sheepskin rug in front of the fake fireplace. She had an expensive TV and stereo system, a collection of pop LPs – Culture Club, Style Council, Duran Duran and Depeche Mode, among others – alongside some late-night romantic jazz – Sarah Vaughan, Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett. A call girl, perhaps? Certainly a step up from Pamela Morrison and her tiny room off Old Compton Street.

Whatever the case, she lay there very much as Pamela had, and just as young, covered by a white sheet up to her neck, hands together in an attitude of prayer over her chest, pale face and dark hair, no makeup, her eyes staring up sightlessly at the ceiling. Beside her was a crumpled pillow smeared with black and red marks. Banks was also willing to bet that under her clothes they would find her pubic hair shaved and a strip of Sellotape between her legs. But that was for Dr. O’Grady to discover later.

Banks wandered around the living room and opened the door to the bathroom. It was spacious, sparkling clean, with gold-plated taps and pink porcelain. The bath was big enough for two, and was surrounded by coloured candles in heavy cut-glass holders. Banks sniffed at one of them. Musk.

In the washstand lay a damp facecloth. Banks didn’t touch it, but he could see that it was smeared with mascara and lipstick. A woman’s disposable razor sat beside the tap, hairs curling from under its blade. He went back out and mentioned it to one of the SOCOs, who responded immediately by taping the bathroom out of bounds, too.

“It’d probably be pretty quiet around here between midnight and three on a Wednesday, wouldn’t it?” Banks asked Verity. “With all the pubs and restaurants closed.”

“There’s a few clubs,” said Verity. “And University College isn’t far away. Students seem to be up at all hours.”

“We’ll canvass the area, as usual. It’s amazing how nobody sees anything.”

“They don’t want to get involved,” Verity said. “Happens all the time in Vice. People don’t even want to be remotely connected with anything that smells of Soho gangsters and kinky sex, let alone a loony bloody murderer on the loose. Can’t say I blame them.”

“Doesn’t help us much, though, does it?” said Banks. He nodded towards the bed. “Know her?”

Verity bristled. “What do you think I am, a fucking john?”

“No, Roly, you’re a Vice Squad cop. It’s your job to know what’s going on, put names to faces.”

“I’ll ask around.”

“Do we know her name?” Banks asked the room at large.

One of the SOCOs heard him and came over with an envelope in a plastic bag. “Maureen Heseltine, according to this,” he said, then produced another bag. It held a book of matches from the Bunch of Grapes Club, showing a large-breasted woman holding a bunch of plump, ripe purple grapes, her tongue out, as if to lick them suggestively. Banks hadn’t heard of the place. “There was also a drawer full of condoms, all shapes, flavours and sizes. Ribbed and plain. Lager and lime and curry seemed to be her favourite flavours. French ticklers, too. And sex aids. Butt plugs, cock rings, dildos, handcuffs, vibrators. And you should see some of the outfits in her wardrobe. Leather, studs, satin, silk.”

“You know your sex aids,” Banks said.